


If Given The Chance

by tarori



Series: Dark Souls: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Angst, M/M, Memories, Parting Words Regret, Pining, or at least that's the intended purpose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26934379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarori/pseuds/tarori
Summary: A forgotten god is travelling to a new land, but when he stops at an inn for the night, he is reminded of a certain knight and the last time they spoke.
Relationships: The Nameless King/Dragon Slayer Ornstein
Series: Dark Souls: Bad Things Happen Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1876606
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	If Given The Chance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsLittletall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsLittletall/gifts).



> This is a fic written for the Bad Things Happen Bingo from tumblr which you can find here: https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/
> 
> To see the current state of my card you can go here: https://taroris.tumblr.com/search/badthingshappenbingo
> 
> This prompt was requested by MrsLittletall, hope you like it ^^

The inn wasn’t crowded with people. Three men (two robust men along with another squalid one) were sat, deep in a heated conversation, at one of the tables that served as a dining area in the middle of the room, a girl dressed in modest clothes was sweeping the floor with great vigor and casting disgusted glares towards the group of men, and behind a counter at the back of the room was a middle aged woman, who clearly was the innkeeper, counting coins.

When Gwynsen opened the door, though it made a loud noise when dragging, only the girl noticed his presence. It wasn’t hard, being more than a meter taller than her. She nodded in a timid greeting and gestured toward the innkeeper before resuming his chores, now with eyes fixed on the floor while he walked past her.

Gwynsen took a look around: the inn had only one floor, and the room’s doors were all delimiting the dining area, only one was closed and he caught one of the robust men picking at him behind his beer mug. The innkeeper was still counting the coins, her face overshadowed not only by age, but with a deep furrow and brown hair locks that refused to be tied up in a bun.

She cursed under her breath, “Goddammit, that old prick of Birstan has left without paying me again!”

“Good evening,” Gwynsen said, after relocating his bag on his shoulder and leaving the bag his horse always carried against the wooden counter.

The innkeeper did a little jump, almost dropping the coins she currently had in her hand. For a second, she looked as if she didn’t know where she was, but then, her eyes fell upon his torso, and the innkeeper had to follow his height up to his face.

“Good evening! How can I help you, good sir?” She asked, setting the coins and ledger aside.

Her eyes were shining with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. It was the same look Gwynsen always received when he visited new towns, always being out of place by his huge frame and uncommon features. 

He was well aware that it had been a miracle he hadn’t been recognized at the start of his new journey, because even if he had taken the precaution of cutting his hair and hiding anything that made him resemble his smashed statues, he still looked like his father’s copy. 

Thus, only when he was sure to be at least five lands away from his natal city, he started to spend nights in beds, though always small for him, were way better than sleeping on the floor. And the fear of being recognized eventually ebbed away when he travelled father to the south, where the name of his father was replaced by other names way more important than his and the concept of the Lord Souls and Dragon War was foreing on their tongues. 

“A room for this night and a plate of food,” he simply said, trying to not give rise to any conversation with the woman. 

Gwynsen reached inside his cloak’s pocket, pulled out a little pouch with money and waited for her to tell the price. Then, after a disheartened gaze to the barely empty pouch (he will need to find some jobs soon) tossed the coins on the counter.

“Your room is the third door on the left,” she said while she was handing him the key. “And the food will be done soon. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime, good sir.”

“Thank you.” Gwynsen turned around, slipping the pouch back into his pocket. But the woman’s voice made him stop.

“Uhm, good sir?” He turned again. “If I may ask… Where are you from? We’ve never had a guest as… tall as yourself.”

With an exhausted sigh, he lied, “From the west.”

In her face it was clear that the innkeeper has understood that the dull and dry answer meant he didn’t want to explain further nor engage in speaking about the mysteries of that western land she had never got the chance to visit, only imagine from traveler’s tales. Still, she adventured herself with one more question that made the forgotten god wrinkle his face.

“And may I have your name?”

“Faraam,” he lied again.

Then, Gwynsen headed to his room, ending the annoying chatter once and for all. He left both of his bags besides the bed. With quick moves, he untied his cloak and unleashed the straps of his armor. Gwynsen put the pieces against the wall, and after watching it closely, he decided that they would soon need a thoughtful clean. Then, he put back his cloak, to hide again his attire marked by (dirty) gold. From his bag he picked a map he recently purchased and a little piece of charcoal, and he headed to the tables outside, sitting as far away as he could from the group of men still arguing about, from what reached his ears, bets.

Gwynsen extended the map on the surface, searching for the town where he was now. Once located, with the charcoal, he marked it with a cross and proceeded to trace a new path to the next town he needed to go. He was close to his destiny, to that far away land the dragons spoke to him once, the land where a dragon shrine was built and an ancient dragon lived in.

“Here’s your food,” came the timid voice of the girl by his side.

She was carrying a plate of pork soup with vegetables that, carefully, she placed in front of him. Gwynsen folded the map and set it aside, but while he was doing that, he noticed the girl was casting him timid glares with a faint blush on his cheeks. He just thanked her, and, when she left after a clumsy nood, he grabbed the spoon and proceeded to eat.

But not long after, Gwynsen heard a door open and a voice he hasn’t heard before. Turning around with mild curiosity, his eyes fell on a man speaking with the innkeeper besides the counter, and when Gwynsen watched the red mane cascading down his back, he felt he couldn’t breath.

“Ornstein?”

The man turned around with a confused look. It wasn’t Ornstein, of course. Except for the hair, there was nothing in that man that resembled the golden knight that lived in his memories. And Gwynsen felt he was blushing like the girl working for the innkeeper.

“Excuse me?”

“I- Ah… I thought-” Gwynsen stuttered, “I mistook you for someone else. I apologize.”

The man flashed a kind smile, “It’s fine.”

After finishing talking with the woman, that man headed to one of the tables and Gwynsen followed him with timid eyes. There was another woman he hadn't seen when he arrived waiting for him, and when he took a seat by her side, both shared a tender kiss.

All of a sudden, Gwynsen felt a pang of envy. Because the memories of his knight (or who once was his knight) that he tried so hard to keep under lock and key, but thanks to that nameless man had found a breach to escape, entailed a nostalgia for things that never happened, things that kept him awake at night, imaging the multiples what-if scenarios in his mind that, given the chance, he would have made things different.

The forgotten god couldn’t take his eyes out of the pair, who were having a quiet chat in the meantime their food was being prepared.

During the war, he remembered seeing glimpses of gold, but he never got the chance to be face to face to him. His eternal opponent (when it wasn’t the dragonslayer arrows he dodged on the back of a dragon) had been his father, never letting anyone get near them, because his pride as a father and as a ruler was bigger than his reasoning.

Then, when has been the last time he got the chance to speak with Ornstein? It took him a little while to go back in time, years and years back in time, to find that insignificant conversation they had back in the castle’s armory.

It happened during his last hours in Anor Londo, on a quiet evening close to sundown. Gwynsen needed to pick the last thing for his plan: his sword-spear and some back-up weapon. He remembered to be nervous, so he thoughtfully chose to sneak into the armory during the last hours of the day, when everyone was preparing themselves for dinner and the knights were over their training. 

But not even that prevented him from coming across the last stragglers that needed to go to their own rooms and change into fancy clothes. It made him wonder how he was going to bring his weapons to his bedchambers without anyone to notice, and it made him pray to have luck and not come across anyone else on his way back to his own bedchambers.

The only good thing was that the maids were nowhere to be seen (they were all busy setting the dinner hall and preparing the food) so, at least, it was one less thing to worry about.

On his way to the armory, Gwynsen thought he could also use a smaller weapon. Something easy to hide and reach under his cloak in case he didn’t have time to grab his dearest sword-spear or cast lightning. Maybe he could use a bow and arrows. Or maybe not, he thought. That probably was too much...

Gwynsen opened the door after quickly peeking at his sides. It was all clear. But once he was inside the armory, he felt he was meeting with the very same goddess of death.

“What are you doing here?” His mouth ran before he could even think.

Ornstein did a little jump, maybe he even gasped, but it got muffled by his helmet. His knight, in front of a shield stand, turned around, paper in hand, and bowed.

_His knight…_

“Good evening, my Lord. It is a surprise to see you here. Is there something I can do for you?”

Looking at the lion’s snarl, waiting patiently for his answer, he felt genuine fear for the first time since he’d finished formulating his plan. Gwynsen took a timid step forward, so unlike him. Still, the lie flowed naturally through his tongue, along with a head shake, “I’m just going to clean my weapons. You can... continue with your business.”

“Clean your weapons, your highness?” His tone of voice was thoughtful, and Gwynsen felt a cold sweat running down his back. He didn’t want him to think, Ornstein was too smart to figure out on his own that something was wrong. “If I recall correctly... I sent a group of Silver Knights to clean the arsenal a couple of days ago.”

Gwynsen picked his sword-spear from the wall. It was right between his father’s sword and the empty slot of Ornstein’s spear. 

“You know that sometimes I like to take care of them by myself,” he mumbled, heart pounding faster in his chest.

Well, that wasn’t a lie per se. And when Ornstein hummed in acknowledgment, he felt the knot in the pit of his stomach banishing.

Taking a seat on a bench, he observed Ornstein’s back, the golden shiny armor with beautiful and intricate patterns, the plume, as red as his hair, swaying with every little movement of his head. Gwynsen could spend hours just looking at it and never get bored. And his heart was pounding fast in his chest, but for another different reason that wasn’t about getting caught.

Thankfully, something in his mind clicked, making him remember that he needed to pretend to be cleaning his sword-spear. 

But the weapon was, indeed, completely clean, even more shiny than he remembered it to be.

Gwynsen let out a shaky sigh. What would he do now? If he starts cleaning the weapon it would be too weird, Ornstein would start suspecting about him and it could put in risk his whole plan. And if he walks away now, he couldn’t risk going back to the armory for a second time. Not when he has been seen by half the castle in his way there.

Multiple thoughts started to rush through his mind, all about the possibilities of being caught, of Ornstein casually mentioning his weird behaviour and getting attention to him, of screwing his plan he carefully carried on for three months to avoid the Blade’s stare. Was he being paranoid? Maybe. But why did Ornstein have to be there? He was so sure that the armory would be empty at that hour!

That last question made him lift his head, ceasing the anxious thoughts and giving space to one he was afraid it was real. Did Ornstein already know something? Instinctively, his hand curled tightly around the sword-spear handle.

“What are you doing here, Ornstein?”

His low cautious voice made Ornstein raise his head from the paper he was holding and turn around. “I’m checking the equipment.” 

“For what?”

The knight let out a sigh, and he sounded very tired. “Well, Sir Artorias sent to me three of his knights because they are a lost cause in handling the great sword. But he told me about his decision when the blacksmith finished his turn for today. And as we are running low on weapons after the last battle...” Another sigh. “I’m looking for what we can use tomorrow.”

Of course, it was that. How could Ornstein know anything about his plan?

Gwynsen didn’t notice that he had been staring at Ornstein for too long, so the knight asked concerned, “Am I bothering you, my Lord? Do you need me to leave?”

He blinked, throwing his alarming thoughts to a deep corner of his mind. “No, of course not. You are allowed to stay.”

Cursing to himself, Gwynsen relaxed his grip. He was on edge, he wasn’t being himself and it showed. There was a weird silence after that, after Ornstein nodded and kept checking the weapons. 

Doing this secret plan wasn’t his style at all, he always prefered to announce himself, to charge against the enemy, not run away from battle. Let alone keeping his escape as a secret until someone noticed his absence while he was gaining distance.

Another thought came to his mind, less anxious, but it made his heart tight. Will Ornstein be the first one to notice he was missing? 

No, he couldn’t let himself be distracted by that. He has made a great effort not to think about Ornstein and how he would feel after the notice of his “betrayal” was official, to start putting some distance between them even if their souls were painfully calling for each other…

Gwynsen looked at the tinny and distorted reflection of himself in the blade. His disstreful eyes were looking back at him, but he couldn’t start feeling pitiful now, not when there was something more important at stake, something more important than his… feelings for his knight. His feelings that (he was almost completely sure) were reciprocated.

“Damn Artorias…” He heard Ornstein curse under his breath. “I swear I’m going to make him pay for doing this to me…”

The knight turned around again, and Gwynsen felt his eyes on him. An urge to see them, to see Ornstein’s face for one last time grew inside him. But he used all his willpower to shut those unavailing thoughts.

“There aren’t enough weapons for everybody, and I don’t want to split them in groups when there are new knights,” he said. “I don’t know what I can do, and I-” Ornstein interrupted himself with a sigh loaded with frustration, bringing his attention back to the paper and tracing its lines with his gloved finger. 

There was no need for him to finish what he was saying, Gwynsen already knew what his next words were going to be: “I don’t have time for this. I need to finish the reports!” Or something along the lines.

“You can always put them to spar. Like how we used to train...”

Ornstein stopped on his track, rapidly lifting his head up, probably with a surprised look under his helmet. “I… I almost forgot about that. It has been so long since the last time…” 

Then, to Gwynsen’s surprise, his knight let out a chuckle, brief and very quiet. Ornstein started rambling about the routine he could use tomorrow in an excited tone, but the prince didn’t pay attention to his words. His mind got caught in that sound he loved to hear, and the intrusive thought of seeing his face, his little smile, returned to his mind with greater force.

He wanted to ask him to remove his helmet so badly... But he couldn’t, it would be weird. But, oh, how much was he going to miss him until everything was over.

He had faith. Faith that this unfair battle would reach an end. Faith that he will make his father understand. Faith that with the help of his allies (the last dragons) he will open his father's eyes and make him see that dragons were no longer enemies (he smirked to himself as he remembered that his father trusted a dragon with a vile heart and thought that, with the right acts, the worthies of its kind wouldn’t present a problem to be trusted), and if not… He was a God of War, he could win a battle, as he has always done before.

A month without seeing Ornstein would be nothing when there was such a great cause leading his steps, a cause that will bring a better future to the land, to Anor Londo, to his family, and to his faithful knight. Yes, Ornstein would have faith in him, in his actions and his unknown-to-him plan. And when he returned to a greater Anor Londo, a new city rebuilded by compassion and fellowship instead of greed and constant pursuit of power regardless of means, _oh_ … Then, the game they were playing would finally come to an end. 

Yes, he would put an end to it and confess to his knight, proclaim his endless love and devotion to him, and confirm that all those looks searching for each other in a crowded place, the lingering greeting in ceremonies they have to touch and kiss hands, all that supposed flirting when there was no one around (words with a dubious undertone, a search for the other that always ended in faint touches, and, on their bravest days, leaning onto each other) have a real meaning, a meaning that would lead them to show their love for each other and live a life together.

“Thank you for your help, my Lord,” Ornstein said once he was done with his rambling.

Gwynsen smiled back at him, casually putting a hand on the bench. “What have I told you to call me when we are alone?”

Oh, he could imagine so perfectly that shy smile under his helmet… He needed to see his face, but he could wait until he was worth it, when Ornstein could understand why he ran away to “their enemies” and see how Anor Londo was wrong, how they could change things for better.

“Right,” his voice came out quietly, almost as a whisper, “Gwynsen.” The prince resisted to close his eyes and indulge in the way Ornstein caressed each letter of his name with his tongue. “I should take my leave now. There is work still awaiting for me...”

After a slow bow, in which the knight didn’t break eye contact, he headed to the door. Gwynsen didn’t take his eyes out of him, drinking his figure, the way he walked, the well-known clicking of his armor… 

When Ornstein put a hand on the door handle, he looked back at him. “Gwynsen, tonight, after dinner… Will we see each other?”

“Of course,” Gwynsen said without thinking. A pang of regret immediately tried to make its way on his gut.

His knight nooded, and, in the brief second he opened the door, Gwynsen bit on his lips, trying to stop his tongue from running without permit. But it failed.

“Ornstein...” He stopped under the door frame, casting a questioning gaze back.

_I love you._

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

“Of course, my Lord. I’ll take care.”

Ornstein closed the door behind him, leaving the prince soon-to-be-traitor-until-proven-otherwise alone. Then, Gwynsen looked at his reflection on his sword-spear and felt a rush of energy. With new forces, he made up his mind. He wouldn’t fail. His resolution was stronger now, thanks to both the promise of a better future and a future with Ornstein, and his heart was shaking from excitement.

The god got out of the bench, keeping a strong grip on his weapon, and decided it was time to grab the last things he needed and get going.

Gwynsen was brought back to reality when the redhead man laughed, loud and strident, not like the quiet and reserved type of laugh of Ornstein. How could he have mistaken that man for his beloved Ornstein?! The forgotten god shook his head, scolding himself for such a thing, and returned his gaze to his plate, to his memory.

What a fool he had been back then for thinking he could change the world for the better... Huh, he wanted to laugh in the face of his past self. Not only he didn’t win but he had been banished from his city and his name was now both forgiven and forgotten. 

But, given the chance, would he have taken another path?

His first answer, after hearing rumours of gods leaving the holy city months ago, would have been no. But then, a lion snarl took its place in the front line of his thought.

How long has been since that last conversation? Years? Centuries? He wasn’t sure. But over the time, a devastating feeling has grown in his heart. One that has made Gwynsen fight with teeth and nails to keep it at the dark deep corner of his mind: he should have told Ornstein about his plan that evening, convince him to come with him, he was sure that his (not anymore) knight, in the safety of the castle, would have listened to him and tried to understand him. Maybe, Ornstein would be there with him, not back in Anor Londo, feeling betrayed and used. That was, of course, if he was still alive. 

No, Gwynsen didn’t want to think about the possibility of him being dead. It was too much, he couldn’t handle that.

But he did think about what he should have said. He regretted every second of that conversation as much as he treasured the last memory he had with him. He should have explained his plan to this most trusted knight -no, friend. He should have asked him to remove his helmet and see for one last time his beautiful face, his green eyes that always made him hold his breath, and his red hair he always longed to caress. He should have said those words that got stuck on his throat, those words he thought only worthy to say when he returned victorious, he should have told Ornstein that he loved him with all his heart… That no matter what happened, Ornstein was the most important thing in his world, that he hadn’t played with him nor had seen him as an entertained until that night when he no longer was welcomed in his home.

What a fool he had been...

Gwynsen kept his gaze fixed on the plate of food, no longer feeling hungry and with a lump in his throat, appropriate for a pathetic god of war.


End file.
